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Monday, January 31, 2011

In my continuing quest to do any type of job that pays me a decent hourly wage, for nine hours today I will be selling pottery at the New York International Gift Fair today. No food service, no apron and no tips. Just me, a clipboard and hundreds of ceramic pieces. Anyone else at the fair? Come say hi. Since it is the ass crack of dawn over here (7:30 AM) I only have a moment to write about two things.

First off, on Tuesday February 1, I hope you will join me here in New York City for Out From Behind the Apron. WNYC is inviting servers and bartenders from across the city to share insights about the dining public, discuss industry trends, reveal pet peeves and trade behind-the-scenes stories. I will be speaking and if you come find me, I will shake your hand and pretend to be your bet friend in the whole wide world. The event should be interesting because they are essentially giving me and anyone else who wants to come, the chance to vent and bitch. And then they'll put it on the radio. Fun. You have to RSVP so go to this link for more information.

The second thing I want to talk about also happens tomorrow and it's International Pity-Bait Day on Facebook. A friend of mine created this day and it just makes me laugh. It's sorta (okay not sorta, but completely) making fun of those people who put as their Facebook status things like: "Sigh. I thought it was going to happen for me, but I guess the universe had other ideas..." If you don't see status' like that, either your friends are a happy lot or you have them hidden like I do. Go to this link for more info and join the depressing fun. Some people think it's mean to make fun of people. I think it's fun. And I hear he is somehow going to make a contest out of it.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Yes, this a re-post from almost exactly a year ago because people still need to learn this shit. Share it. Spread it around. Tweet it. Do it all.

Wanna know how to get the attention of your server? There are a lot of ways to do it and I want to make sure that people know the right way as opposed to snapping your fingers across the room. Granted, some servers pay little or no attention when they're on the floor (guilty as charged) and maybe a snap is the only thing that will work. I find that a simple knowing look to your server is all it takes. A look that says, "Hey there, man. I know you're busy as hell and you have a crappy job and all, but if you get a chance could you please maybe pop by my table and refill my water? If you can't it's cool. I understand. Just thought I'd ask. Thanks anyway." That kind of look is all it would take for me to fill up their water. Sadly, most people don't have the muscle adaptivity to complete such a complex facial expression and instead belch out the words, "water" as they point to their empty glass repeatedly.

Another way that people will try to get their waiter's attention is by reaching out their hands to actually touch them. That is so not cool. I do not want to be touched by someone I don't know unless of course we are in a situation where that type of behavior is expected and appreciated. At a bar or spouse-swap party? Yes. At work? No. If I am at another table taking an order and I feel someone tapping me on the shoulder only to turn around to see the dickwad from table 102 standing there and asking for another piece of bread, I will not be happy. No touching.

Yelling my name is also unacceptable but very rarely happens to me because of one simple reason: I don't tell people my name. All that happens when you do that is they use your name over and over again. It gives customers a false sense of camaraderie and the misleading idea that I care and that I want them to use my name. I don't care. Or want them to use my name. And unless they are going to introduce themselves with a "Hi, my name is Bitty McBitchBitch and I will be dining in your section today," I will not be telling them my name.

Let us review. If you are in need of your server and want his attention, just give him a look. If you can't successfully interpret the look I wrote about before, then just try this instead. Look at your server. When he catches your eye, smile a bit, thrust your chin forward a bit and raise your eyebrows. Try that right now. And do it again. You see how easy it is? With this simple exercise, you will guarantee a full glass of water every time you need it. Congratulations.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

There is an article floating about on the Internet and the Facebook that has been brought to my attention by more than one person. (Two people.) It is a list of who you should and should not trust with your credit card. The list is only eight people long: your child, your loved ones, the hired help, virus protection (that's a person?), the debt collector, people who call you on the phone, your waiter and yourself. Basically, they are saying every single person in the whole entire world is someone that may try to rip you off. Doesn't that list sort of encompass all human beings? Even the Pope could be classified as "hired help." They did, however, leave off the cocksmacks who work at the Home Depot on 59th and Third Avenue who ripped me off four years ago, stole my identity and racked up some plane tickets to Puerto Rico. Here is what the article has to say about we horribly untrustworthy waiters:

6. The disappearing waiter. Anytime your plastic is swept away by another person, you have reason for pause. Unfortunately, some restaurant staff may be especially dangerous. "Many skimming networks operate using wait staff," warns Steve Rhode of GetOutOfDebt.org. "They will pay $50 or more for credit card information that can be swiped off your card using a small electronic device that reads the magnetic strip on the card. Skimming only takes two seconds." While you can't always control where they take the card, it's important to check your receipts and statements immediately.

Dangerous? In all my years I have never known any waiter who was being paid fifty bucks to lift credit card info from customers. Then again I never worked at BBQ's either so maybe it does happen. This article is typical fear-mongering in order to get more people to read it. It seems to me that swiping the info from a credit card at work would be way too easy to get caught and therefore not justify the federal credit card fraud charges that would soon be filed against the waiter. But there it is: DO NOT TRUST YOUR DANGEROUS WAITER. Not only will we read the magnetic strip, we will also take that gold Am Ex as soon as we get it and run to Macy's for a new black belt and shoes for work. As soon as I have that hot little Discover card, I am going to log onto Amazon.com and buy as many books as possible. If I see a platinum Visa card, I am immediately calling my cell phone to order a lifetime supply of Snuggies. That's right, I'm dangerous.

That's not to say that we should not be vigilant about our credit cards. In this world, you never know who will rip us off, but to specifically pinpoint waiters is wrong. If someone is so freaked out by the use of credit cards, they should look into this thing called "cash." It works too. I use it all the time. And since we are pointing fingers, why not point at the actual credit card companies themselves? They have the right to jack up their interest rate any fucking time they want to. They can rip you off and do it legally. Say you have credit card with a 6% interest rate but one month you pay your bill one day late and then all of a sudden the interest rates jumps to 27% plus you have to pay a $35 late fee. I'd way rather trust my waiter with my credit card than whoever the fuck runs the credit card company. Fuck them.

Friday, January 28, 2011

If you are in the New York City area next week, this is something you may be interested in attending. WNYC (Public Radio) will be hosting an event where servers and bartenders from across the city will share insights about the dining public, discuss industry trends, reveal pet peeves and trade behind-the-scenes stories. I will be there on the panel and I am super excited about it. It will eventually be broadcast on the radio, y'all. If for no other reason, you can come by to meet me and say hello. I will be the one with the bag over his head in order to remain anonymous. If you want to go, you have to email the host (not me) to RSVP. Her email is khoran@wnyc.org and all the details are at this link.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

at 1:00 PMDuration: 2 hoursAdmission is free, but reservations are necessary.Tickets: FREE

44 Charlton Street (on the corner of Charlton and Varick) New York, New York 10014

I really hope you can make it. If you are a server, you know you have something to say!

One of the most common questions I am asked is if I have ever spit in anyone's food. The answer is absolutely not. In my 33 years of food service, I swear on a stack of Tiger Beats that never once have I ever been so upset with a customer that I felt the need to take their food and spit in it. That is unprofessional, immature, unsanitary and disgusting and I would never do that to a plate of food. But one time I did spit in a lemonade.

Although I am not proud of this fact, I admit that I stooped to that level. Blame it on youth, blame it on insensitivity or blame it on the rain, but it happened. Black Eyed Pea Highway 290 in Houston, Texas. I was working my regular lunch shift in the late 1970's. One of my tables had four burly truck-driving men at it who no doubt came in to get their daily allowance of fried food and gravy injected into their veins. Now in those days, I was intimidated by men like that with their Wrangler jeans and cowboy hats and all that body hair sprouting from every orifice. They were not being particularly nice to me, but I could tell that they were not particularly nice to anyone else either. They were real men who thought that manners don't matter (they do matter!) and the gruffer they were, the more manly they were. One guy kept sucking down lemonade because he wanted to make sure he took full advantage of the unlimited refills that were available. As I brought another glass to the table, I distinctly heard the word "faggot" followed by deep guttural manly men laughs. When I put the glass down, they all looked at me and abruptly stopped laughing. I knew they were laughing at me. They continued with their non-use of "please" or "thank you" and when it came time for yet another goddamn glass of lemonade, I had had it. Still fuming about the "faggot" remark, I regressed to high school where that moniker was a regular occurrence for me. Some people had nicknames like Skip, Moose, or Boss. Mine was Faggot. Suddenly those four men at table 14 represented every boy in high school who had called me that name. They were the same boys on the school bus who knocked me down and made me cry. They were the same asses who scrawled my name on the bathroom wall saying I gave good head. They were the same punks who slashed my tires at the Homecoming dance. As I filled up that gigantic glass of lemonade, I hocked up a loogie from deep within my tortured soul. The phlegm sat in my mouth as I debated whether or not to follow through on my sudden decision of revenge. Plus, it's harder than you'd think to find a place in a sidestand where you can safely spit into a glass of lemonade without anyone seeing. But I did it. I let the spit drop into the glass and then I stirred it up with the straw and went back to the table.

"Here you are, sir. Is there anything else you need right now?" He grunted. I stepped away and watched him drink his lemonade. What was weird was that I didn't feel better. I felt stupid. It was like I was just as base and as lame as he was. What had come over me that suddenly I wanted to make this one man pay for every wrong that had come my way? I gave them the check, but I took one lemonade off the bill. I knew it didn't really matter, but I did it anyway. I guess it was my apology for something that no one knew anything about.

I have never done that again. One time. That was it. Ironic really, because I am certain that he went on to call many other guys a faggot. I moved on. He probably didn't.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Can we talk for a moment about people who have no fucking concept of time and how it passes? How are there still people in this world who don't know how to keep track of time? In this day and age of cell phones, MP3 players, iPads, laptops and fancy digital watches, there is no excuse for not knowing what time it is. Every single device that we carry on us these days has the goddamn time on it. There is no excuse. At my job, the customers are asked to get there thirty minutes before showtime so they can be sat and we can get their drinks for them before the performance starts. This hardly ever happens. If a show is at 8:00, I can't tell you how many people drag their late sorry ass into the club at 7:58 and then get all pissy that I am trying to hurry them to their seat and take a drink order."Do you know what I can bring you to drink, folks?""Well, we just got here so... no. Can we have a few minutes to settle in?""Oh, I'm sorry, but your 'settling in' time started 28 minutes ago and we are now in the 'give me your drink order' time."They're never ready so I have to go back in after the show starts and then they get all pissy that I am bothering them as their best friend in the world is performing; their best friend who they couldn't show up on time for.

Last week, ten people showed up forty-five minutes late for a show that only lasted an hour. Lucky for them we started the show fifteen minutes late because when it was time to start the show there was nobody fucking there. Starting something late to allow for the latecomers only encourages the latecomers to continue being late. Does this make any sense? What about those of us who show up on time? Do we not matter? If I leave early enough to allow for the possibility (probability) that the 7 train just decided to not stop at my station that day, and I still make it somewhere on time, I should be rewarded with the event starting in a timely manner. I shouldn't be punished by having to wait fifteen minutes for everyone else. I think things should start on time. Period.

A few days ago, we started a show on time and then this woman showed up ten minutes late. "Oh, the show already started?" she asked. She was all surprised. "Well, the show was scheduled to start at 7:30 and it did,' the host told her. "But you never start on time," she replied. Touché, lady. We usually don't because we are waiting on bitches like you who don't show up on time. But not that day. Sit your ass down and get over it.

I realize this post is not ground-breaking, news-worthy or even remotely interesting but it had to be said. In the seventh grade, I got a digital watch that was all the rage. It had two alarms on it so I set it for everything. I set it to wake me up, to catch the bus, to do my homework, to watch television, to make a phone call, to masturbate, to go to bed, you name it. I became a stickler for timeliness. I was never tardy to the party even though that was not yet a saying and I was never invited to a party. (Who would invite a nerd who worshipped his digital watch to a party?) My point is, I want people to pay attention to the the time. Show up for reservations on time, your job on time, your dates on time, and most of all, show up to my station on time. Because if you don't, I will wait until the most poignant and quietest moment of the show and that is when I will barge up to your table and ask you if you would like a spinach artichoke dip.

(Bonus points if you can name the two musical artists referred to in the title and picture.)

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

It seems like only yesterday that I was writing a post about tacos and shouting out my love for all things Taco Bell. No sooner did I press "publish post" did I hear something that shook me to my core. No, I am not talking about the fact that Oprah has a half sister. I am not talking about the State of the Union address which I tried to watch but ended up watching Modern Family on Hulu instead. I am talking about the lawsuit that came out against Taco Bell claiming that their meat is only 35% beef. Some cocksmack (new word I stole from a cranky waitress) filed a lawsuit saying they were upset that testing showed that much of the beef in a crunchy beef taco is simply fillers like water, wheat oats, soy lecithin, maltodrextrin, modified corn starch and an anti-dusting agent. Hello, it's Taco Bell. Who the fuck thought they were getting 100% grade A fucking beef? This person probably thinks when he goes to McDonald's and orders chicken McNuggets he's getting chicken. That's funny. It's McDonald's. And Taco Bell. These are not places that people go to find healthy eating options. It is where we go when we need something cheap, fast and delicious and we have the rest of the day to spend on the toilet. I want to examine these mysterious ingredients that are allegedly in my Taco Bell meat and see if I want to continue eating there.

Water: It's good for you. Our body is made up of water. Seriously, I think we are like 98.6% water or something like that. No biggie.

Wheat oats: Again, these are good for you. Oatmeal, wheat bread, oatmeal cookies? These are all things we should be happy that make it into our bodies because wheat oats have been proven to soak up all the alcohol.

Soy lecithin: Not sure what this is, but I like soy sauce so I say go with it.

Maltodrextrin: Again, not sure but it is probably something that just makes it taste better. I think it is the official name for cumin or red pepper flakes.

Modified corn starch: I have this is my pantry right now. I use it to make gravy. Gravy is good. Hurrah for modified corn starch!

An anti-dusting agent: No idea. As long as it's not a dusting agent like Pledge furniture polish or something that comes from a crop-dusting plane, I'm okay with it. And since it's the last ingredient, it means it is the least amount. Therefore, even if it is something from a crop-dusting plane, it's not really enough to make it worth a goddamn fucking lawsuit.

Taco Bell came out with this statement:

Taco Bell prides itself on serving high quality Mexican inspired food with great value. We're happy that the millions of customers we serve every week agree.

You notice that they left out the part that said "And, yes it is too 100% beef, so shut your lying ass-face." What will happen now? Taco Bell will go to court and fight they they have a right to call their beef "beef" and the other folks will be all, "but it ain't all beef" and then Taco Bell will cave in and just change the name on the menu. They will call it a "beef-flavored taco" or a "crunchy Beaf®taco." And people will continue to go to Taco Bell because we all know that anyone who goes there isn't going because they are looking for health food. They are going because they want some cheap-ass lunch for under six bucks. Yo quiero Taco Bell? Hell yes yo quireo Taco Bell. 35% or 100% beef, yo quiero fucking Taco Bell.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

I loves me some tacos. Mainly because they go perfectly with margaritas but also because they keep me in touch with my (half) Mexican heritage. I have never met a Taco Bell I didn't like but I have also made sweet love to Del Taco, Taco Cabana, Two Pesos and the Super Taco from Jack and the Box. (Once on a cross country trip from Texas to California, my friend Stephanie and I stopped at every single Taco Bell on the way. It didn't matter if we were hungry or not; if we saw one, we stopped and I got a Mexi Melt.) I saw in the news the other day something that caught my eye because it had the word "taco" in it. A restaurant in Arizona was making a name for itself by selling exotic tacos every Wednesday. By exotic, I assumed they meant they put red cabbage instead of lettuce or Monterrey Jack instead of cheddar. But no. These bitches are selling lion tacos. Lion. Tacos. Who in the bloody fucking hell wants to eat a lion taco? All I would be able to think about is The Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz saying "Put 'em up, put 'em up" as I spread sour cream all over it.

According to the vast amount of research I have done (I Googled it), lion meat is not illegal and it is $100 a pound so these tacos would be cost prohibitive for me anyway. Unless that shit is on the dollar menu, I don't want it. I suppose it is technically no different from a beef enchilada, chicken fajitas or a fish taco. (Which are are disgusting by the way. I tried a "fish taco" my sophomore year in college when I was really drunk. Her name was Laura.) I guess the main difference is that we don't normally eat lion. Or tiger. Or bear. Maybe I find it shocking because I grew up eating Hamburger Helper and I am used to the idea of eating cows. Maybe there is a place in the world where a lion sandwich is a perfectly acceptable lunch. I also wonder why we call it "hamburger" and not just "cow." I order a chicken sandwich but not a cow sandwich. This post is confusing me.

The day after I discovered the lion taco place, they came out and said they were taking it off the menu because of all the flack they got. The owner of the restaurant probably never even intended to sell the damn tacos in the first place. He just wanted some press and he got it. No word yet on what their next exotic taco on Wednesday will be.

"Would you like hot or mild sauce with your tacos de penguin?""Mild, please. And can I have extra penguin but the guac on the side?""Si, senora.""Gracias."

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Monday, January 24, 2011

At my job on Saturday, they were in need of someone to cover a bartending shift. They turned a barrel to its side, got a putty knife and proceeded to scrape the bottom of it. What they come up with was me. For ten hours, I was The Bitchy Bartender. I have bartended in the past but only occasionally. When I worked at Houlihan's I covered the bar on Tuesday lunches so it was really never that busy. The occasional frozen margarita that came from the Island Oasis machine and some beers was all I ever had to deal with. However, if you count my experience making cocktails at home, I am full fledged professional bartender with fifteen years of experience. But doing it at my job was going to be a challenge. And I love challenges. I also knew that it would give me something to write about.

We had three shows that day. The first one had about 35 people at it, the second one had 102 and the final one had 50. If each of those folks had their required two-drink minimum, that is 374 drinks that went through the computer. I didn't make coffees or teas or most of the sodas, but that is still a lot of drinks to make for someone who had to keep looking at the Mr. Boston Official Bartender's Guide. (I have one thing to say to the editors of that book: you're font is too damn small.) As the printer spewed out dupes, I focused on the drinks that I knew how to make, like Chardonnay and Sam Adams. But then came a Chinese Lantern which is a specialty cocktail at the club. "I'll make that one in a minute." And then three Razzle Dazzles. "I'll make those in a minute." And a Key Lime Martini. "What the fuck is in a Key Lime Martini? Are you sure they wouldn't like a Corona with lime instead?" I spent about five minutes looking up what a Rob Roy was (scotch, sweet vermouth and bitters) and by the time I made it, the tickets from the printer were all the way down to the floor making a paper puddle of drink orders. The "whirrwhirr" of the printer screaming at me as if to say, "You will never get out of these weeds, bitch. Never." I made a gin and tonic and a margarita on the rocks (finally the bartending at home experience pays off) and handed them to server, Lo. She put them on the tray and then was bumped into by a customer who was unaware of his spatial relationship with others. As the tray began to slip from Lo's hands, she beat gravity to the punch and threw the tray on the floor. "Would you like another gin and tonic and margarita?" I sweetly asked. At this point some stupid twat came up to me and asked me if I could take a picture of her and her friends. I was holding ten bottles of liquor and was wrapped in a roll of paper from the printer. I said "no."

By this point, the weeds are so high that I can longer see over the bar. I hear the servers sreaming things but I can't see them through the sweat in my eyes. "Someone make coffee!" "Where's my cranberry and seltzer?" "There's a sale at Penny's!" It was a giant cluster fuck of aggravation and I loved it. Not once did I lose my cool or get stressed out because I kept this mantra in the back of my mind: "it's just cocktails, it's just cocktails." It wasn't as if someone was going to die if the Maker's Mark Manhattan didn't get to the table right that second. I focused on one drink at a time and eventually we got the whole first round out. Then the second round started and it happened all over again. But I did it. I was thrown to the wolves that night and came out victorious. I dunno if my co-workers and managers were as pleased with my performance as I was, but I did it. You know how Tom Cruise was in that movie Cocktail when he tossed the bottles around all fancy and shit as he made drinks? I was just like that. Except I was not smooth or confident, and not sure if the drinks were being made correctly. I was also not hot like he was in that movie but no one sent their drink back and then they even asked for seconds; even that Key Lime Martini (vanilla vodka, Rose's Lime, pineapple juice and Coole Swan Dairy Cream Liqueur.)

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Sunday, January 23, 2011

Last night at work was exceptionally busy. The show had about 102 people in the audience meaning all 102 of them were sat at the same time and each needed two drinks within the course of a 70 minute show. It may sound easy, but it's not. And then when the show was over, we had thirty minutes to get all of them out, turn the room over and get ready for the next show that had about 45 people in the audience. Needless to say, that thirty minutes between the two shows is a total shit show. Every man for himself. Pay your check, get out. We have a complimentary coat check downstairs for the benefit of our guests. It is downstairs though so in order to take advantage of it, people have to, you know, use the stairs. They are the same stairs that I go up and down all night with racks of glasses, buckets of ice and plates of food. However, some people act like we just told them that if they want to check their coat, they have to take an express bus to the Bronx and then walk from the Bronx to Egypt and then from Egypt they have to fly to the moon and back. It's one flight of stairs, people. It's next to the bathroom, so just kill two birds with one stone while you're down there and take a dump too. It's not that hard.

So during our turnover time, we were all running around trying to bus tables when this lady approached a fellow server and handed her the claim check for her coat. "Excuse me, but will you run downstairs and get my coat for me? Thanks. I think that's my ticket. I found it on the floor. My coat is black." Hey lady, it's New York City. Everyone's coat is black. This server was standing at her computer closing out her checks so she handed the claim check to the busser. "Can you go downstairs and get this lady's coat for her? Thanks. It's black. " The busser took the ticket even though he was holding rack of glasses. This busser is very sweet. Young, quiet, eager to please and kinda shy. I intervened."Nick, you don't have to do that. You're busy. Give the ticket back to the lady.""Oh, it's alright, I was going downstairs anyway," he said."You're busy and that is not your job. Let me give the ticket back to her. I love to tell people things like this.""No, it's okay... I guess I have time...uh...it's okay..."I could tell he didn't want to do it, he just didn't know how to say "no." I know how to say "no." I took the ticket from his hand and said, "You finish what you were doing, I'll take care of this."I went up to the lady to make sure she was not old or infirm. Had the lady been feeble and weak, sure. On crutches, yes. With a walker, absolutely. She was none of those things. The only ailment that was apparent was that she had a serious case of bitch face which does not affect one's ability to walk down stairs. She was chatting with a group of people and it was clear that she just didn't want to bother herself. Plus, if she went down to the coatroom herself, she may have felt obligated to to leave a tip and you know she didn't want to do that. I tapped her on the shoulder. "Hi, is this your claim ticket? Yes? None of us have time to go down and get your coat for you so you'll have to do it yourself." I pressed the ticket into her palm and smiled. I wasn't bitchy. I really wasn't. It was just the truth. And you know what she said? "Oh, okay." And miracle of miracles she managed to walk down that flight of stairs all by herself and get her own coat. She didn't collapse or melt or pass out or faint or die or break out into hives or anything. She simply got her own coat, just like the other 101 people did. Maybe she learned a lesson. I doubt it, but maybe. Maybe she learned that she is a a competent human being who can set goals for herself and then achieve them. Why tonight could be just the beginning for her. Perhaps she will now be able to open the door at the bank for herself instead of expecting other people to do it for her and then not say thank you. Or maybe she will realize that she can open her own tea bag when she orders hot tea. Maybe even some day she will learn how to wipe her own ass instead of letting her poor put-upon husband or maid do it. (I'm not sure that she doesn't wipe her own booty, but she seems like the type.) I'd like to think that I set this woman on a journey of self-exploration and independence last night. Lady, if you're reading this, you're welcome. And fuck off.

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Saturday, January 22, 2011

It is about 12° below "my ass is freezing" and all I want to do today is sit under a blanket and sleep. So please enjoy this repeat post from last year while I thaw out.

I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It's so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen's English, "bartle bagged." (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit'le tyke got a might impatient waitin' for 'er food and threw a bit o' a 'issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You're really bad at it.) The article doesn't say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit "moany" and "grumbly" but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people's way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her "mum" made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, "thankyyou littell fucker." Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Here ye here ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the "offensive" remark got fired. Or "sacked" as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Working in the world of restaurants and catering, there are always candles around. And when there are candles around, it is only a matter of time before some bitch catches her hair on fire. I have seen it happen on more than one occasion and it never fails to amuse me. As long as I know they are safe, I mean. I don't want to see anyone rushed to the burn unit but when someone's hair catches on fire for five or ten seconds, it always brightens my day. Most recently, it happened at The Place that Shall Not Be Named. I was at a table making up the specials when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright light. A woman two tables away was frantically throwing her head around while everyone else at her table was freaking out. The woman started to scream and it was then that I realized she had done got her hair caught on fire. I guess it was her birthday, so the server brought out a cupcake with a candle on it and before you know it, the Aqua Net that only seconds before was keeping her coif in place, was now aflame. Since I wasn't actually at the table I can only imagine how it went down.

(A server steps to the table with the cupcake and birthday candle.)Birthday Girl: Oh my gosh! That is so sweet. Oh, how cute. Thank you!(The guest start to sing "Happy Birthday" as the server places the cupcake in front of Birthday Girl.)Random Guest: Lemme take your picture with my phone before you blow out the candle!Birthday Girl: Oh, that is such a good idea. I want to remember this momentforever.Random Guest: Get closer, I can't get you and the cupcake.(Birthday Girl puts her face closer to the cupcake.)Birthday Girl: Is this better?Random Guest: Closer.Birthday Girl: Is this close enough? I don't wanna get too close because- OH MY GOD! Sweet Jesus, my hair is on fire. My hair is on fire!Random Guest: (click) Got it! That's totally a new Facebook profile picture!

Within seconds, the smell of Birthday Girl's singed follicles permeated the room. Tables began to question what the smell was, of course. Since I didn't want anyone to think that it was our high quality, organic, farm-to-table food, I told every single one of my tables that the horrible odor they were smelling was burned hair. From the lady at table 26. I then pointed to table 26 so they would know exactly who just had the most embarrassing moment of her life. It was fun and I think my customers really appreciated me letting them know what was going on around them. My hateful, miserable, bitchy managers would probably not have been happy to know that I shared that info with so many people, but my tables deserved to know.

Reminds me of this time in high school when this girl got pissed off at some other ho. So she went up behind her during the passing period when the hallway was really crowded and put a Bic lighter up to her hair. Her whole head went up in flames, because it was the 80's and her hair was saturated in mousse, hair spray and DippityDoo. That smell lingered for days. She was alright though. It still makes me laugh.

The moral of the story: hair and fire do not mix. But if you insist upon catching your hair on fire, please make sure someone takes a picture or video of it, so it can go viral.

Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

And in other news, tonight you can listen to my interview on WOR News Talk Radio 710. You can go to their website and click the "Listen Live" link to hear the stream. Air time is Friday January 21 at 6:00 PM EST. My spot is about ten or fifteen minutes long and I come on after an interview with Linda Purl. (she played Fonzie's girlfriend on Happy Days, so I have clearly hit the big time.) Seriously, I was super excited that Valerie Smaldone took the time to listen to me bitch for a few minutes. This is my first radio spot and Valerie was very cool. I have another coming up on February 1 for WNYC public radio. That's right, Bitchy Waiter is going big.

I hope you will listen and maybe even join their Facebook page so you can tell them that you liked hearing me. (But don't do that until you actually hear me, alright?)

So to recap: on Friday January 21 at 6:00 pm EST, go to WOR News Talk Radio. Click "Listen Live" and there you have it.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Perusing the great wide Internet web of technology this morning, I happened upon a story that caught my eye because it is something we have all thought about doing. (Or maybe it's just me.) A line cook from New Jersey was sentenced to 15 days behind bars because he laced a sandwich with his own pubic hair. Yes, it is true. But he had an excellent reason: the customer was a cop who had stopped this cook for a traffic violation a year earlier. So the cook did what any normal person would do, right? Right? Okay, no. Even for me that is a bit too far. Had he put two or three stray hairs from his head he probably would have gotten away with it, but to pile a big ass bunch of fucking pubic hairs on a bagel? Dude, how would anyone thing that is an accident? No one is going to believe that you were simply doing some manscaping in the kitchen and you got the pubic hair mixed up with the mayonnaise. It's not like you put ham instead of turkey or Swiss instead of cheddar. You put hair instead of lettuce. And what kind of super human is this cook who can simply pull out a chunk of his own chest and pubic hair? The guy plead guilty and was sentenced to the jail time that he will serve on the weekends (so he can keep on giving that exemplary service during the weekdays) and he also got two years of probation.

I want to offer this cook some advice: in the future, you might consider cat hair because cat hair can never be traced back to you via DNA. Simply do not leave home without a bag of cat hair for other people who may deserve hair in their sandwich. People such as:

Your ex-girlfriend who broke up with you two months ago because all you do is play Wii and Angry Birds.

Your seventh grade teacher who gave you a C- on your science project about pubic hair.

That lady at Bed, Bath and Beyond who refused to accept your return of the back massager because it was sticky.

Anyone from your high school who made fun of you.

The bus driver who you always tell that your car is in the shop even though he knows damn well you don't have a fucking car.

Michael T. who bounced you off as Mayor of Burger King on Four Square.

Your high school guidance counselor who told you to get your act together before you end up being a line cook at some lame ass restaurant.

Your boss who fired you from your last job for putting pubic hair on a cop's sandwich.

This poor guy let his bad decision get the best of him. I understand. Many years ago, I got a ticket for parking too close to a fire hydrant. I went to court, which was across the street from my job, to fight it and the judge recognized me as a waiter. I recognized him too. He did not reduce my ticket. I waited for months for him to come sit in my station but he never did. I wasn't going to put pubic hair in his food though. I would never have done that, but I did finally throw out that bag of cat hair I had in my locker all that time. I decided to let it go. Maybe that's what this guy should have done too.

Now you know you want to share this nasty ass story on Twitter and Facebook, right?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I have been distributing resumes for the last week or so on the prowl for that illusive thing known as "a new job." I got a call yesterday for an interview and I was all excited because the place is new and it has a music theme which I thought might be kinda neat-o. The best part of it is that they are right next to the subway stop so my commute would be easy breezy beautiful. They asked me if I was free on Thursday and I said yes. I got the address and the details and then they threw this comment out at me:

Oh, and we are going to let the staff decide on what the uniforms will be, so wear some kind of rock and roll outfit to the interview, alright? Cool. Bye bye.

Wait, what? Now I have to come up with a fucking costume for this interview? Don't get me wrong, I am all about costumes. (Case in point.) But what the hell is a rock and roll outfit? I know that when I get there it's going to be crawling with people who think the better their outfit is the better chance they will get the job. As if putting on some tight leather pants automatically makes you a good server. It reminds me of this time I went to an audition for the musical "Hair" and everyone was dressed like hippies. Seriously, one chick had flowers in her hair and went into the the audition room barefoot. I can picture on Thursday a bunch of Heart loving hostesses with big hair and ripped t-shirts. I have no idea what I will wear. Some thoughts:

I can dress like Billy Joel circa 1980, "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me" with black shirt, skinny tie and red blazer.

I can dress like Brett Michaels and wear a bandanna and a black t-shirt with skull and crossbones.

I can dress like Elvis, the "King of Rock and Roll."

I can dress like Bonnie Tyler in "Total Eclipse of the Heart" just because I could really rock that look.

I can wear a "I ♥ Rock and Roll" t-shirt and just say I like Joan Jett.

Buddy Holly? I have glasses like that somewhere.

I could wear leather pants and blow my hair out to try to emulate a certain hair metal band that my brother used to listen to and I could hear blaring through my bedroom wall as I tried to listen to the "Yentl" soundtrack.

Would dressing like Kiss be too much?

Or I can just wear my skinny jeans and throw some eyeliner on and let my resume speak for itself.

I really don't know what I am going to wear. I really dread it, but I need the job. It's like applying for a job at Disney or Bubba Gumps. I actually have a pair of leather pants that have been delegated to the back of the closet because I thought they might be handy for a Halloween costume someday. But to wear them out in public tomorrow? I'd want to tell everyone who sees me that I'm not serious. Just hire me and then tell me what to wear. Hey, maybe I can dress like one of the Go-Go's! Nah, they were punk rock/new wave not rock and roll. Now that I think about it, waiting tables in leather might not be so bad. I bet honey mustard wipes right off of leather.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Heavens to Betsy, I cannot believe how many weeks have passed by since I have had a moment to sit down and write. I guess with all the craziness of the holidays, time has just flown by and here it is already the middle of January. But Spring is only a few weeks away, LOL!! When I last wrote, it was all about my Turkey Day and what a gobble gobble joy it was. But Christmas came and went and it was filled with so much joy and love that my face hurt from smiling for so many days. Of course the kiddos loved it and hubby bought me a new vacuum cleaner! (You were listening, dearest darling husband that I love oh so much!) I spent all day on the 26th of December vacuuming every floor in the house and I even cleaned the drapes and upholstery too. It was so much fun! I wanted the house to be clean clean clean for our New Year's Eve party. Can you believe we had a party? I decided to have a celebration since my baby brother was in town for the holidays. He is such a dear. His name is Bryan and he works in a restaurant. The kids were so excited to see their favorite uncle. I must admit that I was surprised that Bryan left his home so near Christmas because he loves that holiday so much. (Remind me to post pictures of his Department 56 Original Snow Village sometime. It's amazing.) But his new roommate Sam had a business trip in a neighboring town and they decided to visit us as well. We only have one guest bedroom, but Bryan said that he didn't mind sharing the room with Sam. I felt awful that one of them had to sleep on the floor but they seemed okay with it. I think they must have been uncomfortable though because I heard moaning all night coming from the room. That floor must have been so hard! Or maybe it was their little schnauzer, Tranny, that was howling, I can't be sure. Anyhoo, the next day they seemed refreshed and happy so I guess it wasn't too crowded in there for the three of them.

Bryan told the kids that they could call Sam "Uncle Sam" which made me laugh. Uncle Sam! Isn't that funny? That brother of mine is so sweet and he brought presents for the kids too. He gave Suzy Loo a limited edition vintage Barbie doll and Billy Boo a limited edition Ken doll. I told him he spent too much money, but he assured me that they just came from his personal collection and he was trying to make room in his home since Sam moved in. (It must be crowded over there too, because he only has a one bedroom apartment. Sam must have to sleep on the couch, poor thing.)

Our party was a huge success. It was me, hubby, the kids, Bryan, Sam and hubby's secretary. Since we don't normally stay up very late, we celebrated London's New Year which was five hours earlier than ours. That way I could still be in bed by 9:00. I had two glasses of sparkling apple cider and I don't care what the bottle says, I swear to goodness that I was bit tipsy! When I went to bed with the kids, Hubby was driving his secretary home and Bryan and his roommate were going to another party they heard about that was happening in an abandoned warehouse down by the piers.

The next morning I shook off my apple cider hangover and was surprised to see none of them were home yet. Looks like 2011 was off to a bad start. Hubby got a flat tire and had to spend the night at his secretary's house. Bryan and Sam eventually made it home via a nice man they met named Meat. They said they drank too many Cosmos and Meat took care of them all night long at his place called The Dungeon. (Where do they come up with these names for housing complexes these days?) They both seemed exhausted and the poor dears could barely stand up straight. If I didn't know any better I 'd think they had been horseback riding all night long because they were both a little bowlegged. They must have really danced last night! They borrowed $200 dollars from my cookie jar to thank Meat for his services (I guess Meat towed their car home for them) and he went on his way.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Have you ever wondered what Olive Oyl would like in today's day and age? Wonder no more because I think she sat at table 18 last night. She has put on some weight which is a good thing because I always thought Olive Oyl was bit too thin. It was rumored that she had body dismorphic syndrome and may have had some type of eating disorder as well which would explain why she always seemed to weigh about 70 pounds. Judging from her fickle nature and not being able to decide between Popeye and Bluto also shows that she probably had some issues with low self esteem. But last night she was healthy and robust and acting like she has finally got her life on track. Her hair is still jet black but it's obvious that she dyes it now. But she's in her early 90's, so more power to her. It also appeared that she had gotten a boob job because she actually had breasts. Popeye and Bluto probably chipped in and paid for those tits after years of pancake breakfasts. Her feet are still huge but she was wearing snow boots so maybe it was an illusion. She was wearing that sad black pencil skirt and red top but she had jazzed it up with a zebra print jacket. Overall she looked good for a 90 fucking year old cartoon character

"Hello, ma'am. May I get you something to drink?" I asked."Oh dear, I dunno. Ooooh I dunno. Ooooh...ooooh.""I can come back in a few minutes if you want to take a moment to decide.""Nooooo, I'm ready. Ooooh, I would like a vodka on the rocks with olives. A lot of olives. I love olives.""More than three?""Oooh, are they the big olives or the little olives. I love olives.""They are the big olives," said I.Olive Oyl smiled from ear to ear and said, "Ooooh, I love the big olives. I'll take as many as you can give me."I went back to the bar and crammed five olives on to the tiny toothpick and carried it back to the table. She eyed the glass and went straight for the olives. I just knew that her panties were a little wet with olive oil at the very thought of downing those delicious salty little fruits."Ooooh dear, these are big olives. Thank you so much. I love olives," she said again as she swallowed two of them at once."Yes, I heard that about you. Would you like to order any food or will you be having olives for dinner tonight?" I followed that remark with a laugh so she would think I was being funny and not bitchy even though I was being bitchy and not funny."Oooh dear. Hmmmm. Ooooh my. Oh, I know! I would like an order of spinach artichoke dip."

Apparently her years with Popeye had rubbed off on her and she was a big fan of the spinach can. I was afraid to ask her about Popeye. He was older than Olive Oyl was so he's probably dead now. I also wanted to ask her who the hell Swee'Pea was and if he was the bastard child of Popeye or Bluto, but it seemed too personal for a waiter to ask a customer. I almost shared with her how I played her one summer in an amusement park in Denver but decided that she probably wouldn't care. (Yes, I really did. I was Olive Oyl at Elitch Gardens the summer of '87 so if you hugged her that summer, you probably hugged me.) The rest of the night with Olive Oyl was uneventful. She had her two drink minimum and enjoyed the show. She gave me a good tip and went on her way. I was just happy to see that Olive Oyl was alive and well and living in New York City. Now if I could only find out whatever happened to Josie and the Pussycats.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Tonight, your television will be spitting out The Golden Globes. In celebration of this night of giving out trophies, may I make an appeal? Some of you may have noticed that I have been asking you to nominate The Bitchy Waiter for a Bloggie Award and since today, January 16th (at 10 PM), is the last day that nominations are being accepted, I am straight up asking you for your assistance. Help me, okay? It's a simple process. You can go to this link and then simply scroll down to the category that you think I would be best suited for. Best Asian Weblog? Probably not. But maybe "Most Humorous" or "Best Writing" or "Best-Kept Secret" would be swell. Hell, you can put me in all of them. You do have to put at least two other blogs in nominations as well, so you'll have to think of two other deserving nominees. 200 people will then sift through the nominees and decide who the finalists are and on February 1, voting will begin to declare a winner for each category.

I really appreciate that you spend any time here at all and to ask you to go to yet another site to further my blog is a lot to ask, I realize. Just know that I do appreciate it. And I thank you. Please click here to go to the Eleventh Annual Weblog Awards site and help me out.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Now you know I loves me a good hamburger. What's not to love? Juicy ground beef slapped onto a piece of enriched white bun with some melted cheese all up on it? It's perfect food and I am even willing to pay the price for the grass-fed no hormone no antibiotic beef. But there has to be a line. I saw in the news the other day that someone in Vegas is selling a burger for $5,000. Unless that burger comes with a three wished granted by a genie, unlimited french fries and a happy ending, it's too much.

A chef named Hubert Keller is selling it at Mandalay Bay and it consists of Wagyu beef, foiegras and truffles and served with a bottle of 1995 ChâteauPetrus. I assume that Wagyu beef is the new Kobe. And I don't want foiegras on my burger. I like pickles. And the bottle of wine is worth $2500 on its own. So why is the burger so much? I did a little research and discovered that the meat is only worth about $50 and foiegras might cost $25 while truffles can cost $50 an ounce. The bun they use is Wonder White Bread. (I might have made that part up.) Maybe the burger is worth about $400. But they are charging $5,000 for it. Why? I'll tell you why. So that some douche bag can take his gold digging whore of a girlfriend into the Mandalay Bay and order it and look like a big shot. Can't you just see this guy telling his friends the next day? "Hey, I've got so much money that I ate a burger that was worth $5,000, isn't that impressive? And I have a girlfriend is who is blond and younger than my daughter and I also paid for her to get a boob job because I have so much money. Aren't I cool? Aren't you impressed?" No. No we're not.

I'll tell you one person who would be very excited to sell that stupid ass burger though: the waiter. A 15% tip on that stupid ass burger would be $750. Which brings me to something else that someone commented on recently. They wanted to know why should they tip more on a filetmignon than a hamburger if the waiter is doing the same amount of work, which is carrying a plate. I see the point. I do. However, in our world we pay taxes on the amount of food that we sell not the number of plates we carry. Toughtitty, but that's how it is. So that waiter who carries the one plate with the $5,000 burger will make bank that night.

But we know that very few people, if any, will order that entree. It's all publicity for the chef and the restaurant. They know if they put some ridiculous item like that on their menu, it will get talked about and generate press and get people to come to the restaurant that serves the $5,000 burger. But they won't order it. It's smart. It worked. Here I am writing about it and giving them more press because I have about 40 people who read this. You're welcome, Chef Hubert. And in the vein of doing something ridiculous, I add this:

The person who writes the most entertaining comment to this blog by 1/22/10 will receive $5,000 dollars in cash from me. And if I can't come up with the cash, I will send them a Bitchy Waiter necklace of my choosing. For real. I will do that. Be entertaining.

Friday, January 14, 2011

A recent post about tipping out generated over 50 comments. It was a real shit show. Of all the comments, one stood out to me and it needed to be addressed. I had mentioned that through the course of one night, I had made about $500 in tips. The whole point of the post was that I only kept about 35% of that due to the exorbitant amount of tipping out that happened. I walked with $173 which is a good night for certain, but a big pill to swallow knowing that so much of it went to other people who required tips too. Anonymous had this to say:

$500 that night just for filling my water glass and carrying a plate to my table? I’ve lost all sympathy for wait staff. From now on I will not tip at any restaurant. Add the gratuity to my bill and I’ll stand up on the table and make a scene until it’s removed. You don’t deserve that amount of money with your attitude.

Again, I did not get to keep all that money. It also went to bussers, bartenders, food runners, pimps, whores, lions, tigers and bears. So now this guy thinks it's alright to never tip again in any restaurant he goes to. That'll work out great for you, sir. I am sure that by the third time you pour your bucket of 1000 Island dressing ass into a booth at your local Applebee's, they will recall that you never tip and your service will be non-existent. And when you go into Hooter's with your office buddies to celebrate the big 5-0 and they add a 15% tip to your table please let me know. I really want to be there when you haul yourself onto the table to make a scene until they remove the tip.

Your argument makes no sense either. Let's evaluate it, shall we? You think that since I pulled in about $500 that night which ultimately paid many more people than just me, you should not tip anymore. I made $173 for my nine hour shift which is about $19 an hour. A far cry from $55 an hour if I had kept all the tips for myself. How would that work if you went in to Macy's to buy your year supply of Dockers® for work? They must be about $30 each pair and you need five pairs, one for each day of the week: khaki, brown, tobacco, caramel, and wood chip. With tax, that would be about $162.38. But you don't want to pay it because that guy who helped you find your size (42X28) didn't work hard enough to receive $162.38, right? So you say, "Hmmph, I want to pay twenty bucks for all these pants because that's enough for the amount of work you did. Hmmph! And can you tell me where the nearest Chili's is because I want some baby back ribs and an Awesome Blossom." It's stupid, sir.

So good luck with your plan to never tip again. And make sure you tell your friends about your plan too so that when they are going out as a group they will know not to invite your cheap sorry ass to join them.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

I was stabbed in the heart on Tuesday. Okay, not literally, but figuratively I was stabbed in the heart on Tuesday. With words. Words came from the mouth of a woman, they then formed into the shape of a dagger and that dagger was plunged deep into my right ventricle severing my tricuspid valve and rendering my aorta into a useless shiftless chaotic mass of flesh. (A note to nurses and doctors: that sentence probably made no fucking sense at all. Just go with it.) It hurt real bad. The lady certainly didn't mean to drain my life's blood from my soul but it happened. As casually as someone asking to pass me by on an escalator, this woman unknowingly killed my soul.

While interviewing for job, the manager was telling me she wanted to hire "adult servers" because she didn't want any drama coming into her restaurant. I understood what she meant. Sometimes youngins can let their personal lives interfere with their jobs or even let their jobs become their lives while more mature servers don't feel the need to stay after work and socialize with co-workers. I told her that I knew what she meant and she said something like "with all my years in the restaurant business, I can just sense who is going to bring in drama and who isn't." I crossed my fingers under the table and told her that I certainly would not be one who would bring in drama. (I hope she doesn't read this.)"I've been doing this for a long time," said I. She paused. She made eye contact with me. And then she uttered the words that hurt me so deeply. "You're a lifer, aren't you? Like me."

A lifer. Me. A lifer? As in one who has spent their whole life working in restaurants and will continue to do so until they die or retire with no pension and no benefits and only a closet full of aprons to show for their life's work? I pulled the knife from my heart. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "Yes. I am a lifer." I smiled, but inside I was crying at the realization that she may be right. Oh sure, I'm the creative type. I audition, I write, I do shows, I sing, I paint, but the one thing that has been the constant in my life has been my employment in the restaurant industry. I have just never referred to myself as a "lifer."

I thanked the woman for the interview and went on my way. I went into the first deli that I saw to get a bite to eat. In college, when I was depressed, I would go to the little store across the street from school and get three things that always cheered me up. I did that again for the first time in many years. I walked out of the deli with my bag containing a Pepsi, a Butterfinger and Doritos. My three friends who would understand that I was not okay with being called a "lifer." Not that there's anything wrong with being one, it's just that I still have goals. Goals that don't involve trays, aprons and honey mustard and I am not ready to accept that I have drawn this life for myself. After going into my sugar coma and then pulling myself out of it with the Doritos, I looked at my list of the next place to go apply for a job. It was across town. I got on the M102 bus and went up to 23rd street to catch the M23. I felt okay. Bloated, but okay. Maybe I am a lifer. But I am also a writer. And an actor. And I am feeling the need for another Butterfinger right now. A Butterfinger is a goal that is easily achievable and you can help me by clicking here. Thanks.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

As always, I am looking for a new job. Yesterday I put on my snow boots and went tromping through the city hitting up restaurants with resumé in hand. Thanks to my good friend craigslist, I found several places that were actually hiring so I went to them. All of them. It took a good few hours and lot of Metrocard swipes, but I did it. Do I have a job yet? No, but I am certain that Colleen at that one place really liked my energy and would love to have me write about her restaurant behind her back. She'll be calling any minute.

One place I went to was a brand new restaurant still under construction. I know there are a lot of drawbacks to opening a restaurant, but I'm a desperate ho who needs a job. I walked in to the construction site where I was handed an application and a quiz. "Oh, great...a quiz." I banged out the application portion and then focused my attention to the quiz section. Of course it had the usual bullshit like "What is hospitality?" and "Who is the most important person in the restaurant?" I vomited out the answers and got to the more interesting stuff. They had a list of twelve liquors and we had to say if it was vodka, gin, or whatever. Easy enough except for a couple of them. And then a list of six drinks and they wanted us to write the ingredients and garnish for each one. Cosmo? No problem. Long Island Iced Tea? No problem. But a Rusty Nail? Who the fuck remembers that shit unless it happens to be your drink of choice. So I did what any self respecting waiter would do in that situation. I pulled out my trusty smart phone and looked that shit up. Yep, according to the website that Google sent me to, a Rusty Nail is made with scotch and Drambuie. I also looked up a Kamikaze because I have unlimited Internet access on my phone. At one point I looked around and every single person had their phone in their hand doing the same thing I was doing. Oh, sure we were all trying to look like we were looking up the addresses to our personal references, but we all knew what we were doing. We were cheating.

At another place, the application was handed to me by the host who told me to sit at one of two tables and fill it out. Well, there were about a hundred people at those two tables, so I squeezed my skinny ass in there and started writing. I noticed this one girl was just sitting there looking around. She whispered to the guy next to her, "Do you have a pen I can borrow?" Who the hell goes out looking for a job without bringing a pen? Why don't you just write on the top of your resume "unprepared" and be done with it? You are trying to be a sever and you don't have a pen? Her friendly neighbor dug into his bag and handed her one."Dead, "she said."What?" said he?"I think your pen is out of ink.""Oh, well...sorry then." He didn't care and now she was just sitting there again.I felt bad for the poor helpless thing and told her I might have an extra one she could use. I dug through my man purse and found the one extra pen. "Oh, all I have is a purple pen, sorry." I didn't think anyone would want to fill out a job application with a purple pen, but she took it. As soon as I gave it to her, I regretted it, because I was almost finished and now I was going to have to wait until she was done if i wanted my pen back. And you know I wanted my pretty purple pen back. I turned in my app and then went back to the even more crowded table to see the girl still filling in her information. I patently waited as I watched her write in cursive with big looping letters. With the purple ink, it looked like she was writing a note to her BFF that she was going to give to her at lunch in the cafeteria. I can't be sure, but it looked like she dotted her i's with little hearts. About an eon later she put the pen down and I gently asked, "Are you all done? Can I take my pen?""Oh my God, were you waiting for me? I am so sorry, I didn't even think." She handed me my pen."It's alright. I just didn't want your application to be in two different colors of ink if I took the purple pen too soon.""Thank you, you're so sweet," she said not realizing that I was going to blog about her stupid ass the next day.I went on my merry way and began to wonder if her application was going to now stand out because of her bold color choice. If I find out that she got the job and i didn't, that bitch owes me a free Rusty Nail the next time I go in to that restaurant.